School Days Revisited
by Rhianwen
Summary: Who's to say that games have to end with childhood? She doesn't remember ever having this much fun playing school as a little girl. Cutesy schoolroom roleplay featuring kneesocks!Wendy and elbowpatches!Joker.


School Days Revisited

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Disclaimer: They're Kurata's toys; I'm just borrowing them. I promise to bring them back, safe and sound and only mildly traumatized, when I'm done!

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Summary: Who's to say that games have to end with childhood? She doesn't remember ever having this much fun playing school as a little girl. Cutesy schoolroom roleplay featuring knee-socks!Wendy and elbow-patches!Joker.

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It was a lovely evening, Joseph Carpenter thought absently, looking idly out the window as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, attention more or less focused on the door.

The weather was warm and mellow, the night sky clear, the moon _almost_ full so that the night was bright as day without the wild moodswings and generally bizarre behaviour a full moon tended to cause in _certain people_ he worked with.

A night for soft jazz music and red wine sipped in front of the fire until eyelids drooped shut despite the heart's urging to stay up for several more hours of conversation and solitude together and intimate little touches and kisses and glances.

The sort of night best spent with a companion. And, Joseph thought, his gaze immediately jumping from the window as the heavy door of his home office creaked slowly open, it seemed that _his_ companion for the evening was finally ready.

"Mr. Carpenter, I look ridiculous!" Wendy complained as she crept hesitantly toward him, swiping at a bit of hair that had come loose from the short, messy little ponytail and was dancing irritatingly about her nose.

Eyes alight with interest, his gaze sweeping up and down her frame, long slim legs and slight curves appearing all the more youthful for the plain black loafers, white knee socks, short swingy grey pleated skirt, plain white blouse rolled up to the elbows, and deep green sweater-vest that were currently causing her such apparent mental anguish.

"You look just fine."

"Don't you think this idiotic get-up is better suited to someone about two decades younger?"

"I think," he said firmly, approaching and pushing her hair back behind her ears, "that you look lovely."

"At least it's not too small," she sighed, taking a gloomy satisfaction of being able to fit easily into something she'd not worn in eight years at least.

"Yes, that _is_ a pity," he said, voice resigned. "But, it seems to have worked beautifully all the same."

"Well, then. I can take it off now, can I?"

"All in good time, my dear," he laughed, straightening her collar. "You wouldn't want to rush it, would you?"

She looked aghast.

"You don't still want to _do_ that, do you?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I look ridiculous!" she wailed.

He grasped her by the shoulders and turned her toward the door.

"I've told you before, that you look just fine. Now, wait outside until I call for you."

"This is ridiculous," she lamented under her breath, casting a resentful glare surreptitiously over her shoulder.

Then, as a sharp swat to her backside drew a yelp of startled outrage, she reflected ruefully, shutting the office door softly behind her, that maybe complaining was best done in her head.

Or, she thought as the sting began to fade to a pleasant warmth, maybe not.

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"Good afternoon, Miss Earhart," he greeted with a pleasant smile and very watchful eyes as she ambled into the room.

"Hello, Sir," she returned boredly, stopping a few steps from the desk and rolling the hem of her skirt absently. "Mr. Scott sent me to see you."

"Sit."

She made her way slowly to the chair before the desk and sat back, shooting him an impatient look.

"And what is it today?" he asked dryly after studying her carefully for a moment. "Sassed back to a teacher, did you? Cut class? Caught smoking?"

"No," she replied unconcernedly.

"Then what?" he asked sternly.

She crossed her arms huffily, and looked pointedly away.

"Then what?" he repeated, leaning forward slightly in his chair.

She bit her lip lightly, and then spoke hesitantly.

"I was…Mr. Scott caught me in a supply closet with a classmate."

His eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline.

"This is, as I recall, a girl's school."

"I _know_ that," she said flatly.

"Ah. I see. And why wasn't your…ah, classmate sent to see me as well?"

She looked down, expression miserable, her blush deepening. He smiled, one eyebrow lifting slightly in surprise. _Weren't you the one who wanted nothing to do with this, my dear?_

"Because it was my…classmate's first offense," she finally replied, voice little more than a whisper.

"And yet this has been a problem with you before?"

A pause, during which she twisted her legs nervously around the legs of the chair, and avoided his eyes.

"Yes, sir."

He nodded thoughtfully, making a mental note to congratulate her later for being so imaginative with her pretended misbehaviour.

"I see. Now, I believe the typical course of action would be to assign a detention and notify your parents—"

She bolted out of her chair, eyes wide and panicked.

"No, please don't tell them! Mum would go mad!"

"Would she?" he asked conversationally. It's probably _true_ – there must have been a reason that she and the pretty brunette she seemed connected to at the hip for several months lived together under the title of _roommates_. "And why is that, my dear?"

"W-well," she began, looking rather floored. "Because she wouldn't like the fact that I…have girlfriends."

"Wants to see you settled down with a nice boy, does she?"

"Mum doesn't want to see me settled down with anyone yet," she retorted, and he made a mental note to add to her list of punishable offenses. "She would think a boy is better, though, which is silly, because I don't think boys or girls are any better or worse."

"You just prefer girls?"

"Not really."

He peered at her in deep consideration.

"I see. You'll kiss anyone who is nearby and willing."

"No!" she exclaimed, outraged and scowling darkly at him. "I wouldn't kiss a rude old man who asks young girls inappropriate questions about their romantic lives, for one example."

He nearly laughed in astonishment as she dropped back into her chair, sat back, and pouted emphatically at him. _I have the distinct feeling that I am being tested…_

"My goodness, Miss Earhart, and I thought you were in the process of asking me politely not to notify your parents of this little…incident, out of my sheer kindness and goodwill."

She had the grace to look nervous at this.

"Y-you won't, will you?"

"Well, now, that depends," he said thoughtfully. "Of course, we cannot let you go entirely unpunished. You have, after all, broken the rules of this establishment. And if I made an allowance for you, I will certainly feel as though I have neglected my duty to discipline you properly. However," he continued, leaning forward on the desk and catching hold of her gaze with his own, "there are other courses of action that we could take."

"What are they, Mr. Carpenter?"

He smiled wickedly. Whatever her talents, his pretty, demure, sensible Wendy would never be an actress of any note; the interest lighting her eyes might well have been visible from the building across the street.

"I'm afraid you'll have to agree to them first. If you do, I can promise you now that your parents will not be notified of the distraction to your schoolwork, and the schoolwork of others, that your…friendly nature has caused." The smile disappeared behind an inscrutable mask. "Do you agree?"

"Y-yes, Sir," she replied, examining her fingers very carefully. "Just please don't tell my parents."

"Very good," he nodded, ignoring the throb of arousal as her knees fell apart, affording him a very nice view of slim, smooth leg, marked by scars and scrapes that bespoke her long since cured penchant for minor disasters. Not to mention, a hint of something white and lacy. "Now, as much as I rarely approve of this brand of punishment, it seems at the moment the most suitable option." He turned his chair slightly. "Come around the desk, and bend over my lap."

"Em…Sir?" she squeaked.

"If you didn't hear me the first time—"

"No, I heard," she said hastily, moving hesitantly to obey.

"Quickly, now," he requested as she braced herself tentatively with her hands on his leg, leaning forward slowly.

She squeaked, startled, as he wound one hand into her hair and pulled her down firmly.

_Glad to see you're suspending disbelief for now,_ he thought, eyes softening slightly as he watched her readjust into a reasonably comfortable position._ I think you'll enjoy the results._

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She gave a soft, delighted sigh as he pushed her skirt up over her waist and slipped one hand inside the plain white cotton knickers that he had laid out for her to wear along with the other things.

Of course, this was only a silly game. Completely absurd. He had promised that, as long as she would at least _try_ it first, she could bring an end to it whenever she wanted.

Not that she'd have put much faith in _that_; he wasn't really the sort to stop anything he was enjoying unless continuing posed probable physical harm.

Which was just as well, because there was something about that quality in his voice, sharp and stern and just a little bit mocking behind it, and the sharp, sudden tug of his hand at the back of her neck that made this simple, harmless game – which she was, of course, only agreeing to because _he_ liked it so much – at least real enough to make her heart beat wildly as he traced the skin at the edge of the lacy white band at her waist.

Now, where had he been when she was fourteen years old, trying desperately to generate a schoolgirl crush on Professor Walker, lanky, redheaded, freckled, and painfully shy?

For that matter, when did being turned over his knee – at least, while wearing knee socks and tartans – become this appealing? This was _his_ silly bit of fantasy, and she was simply kindly indulging it by providing the mischievous and disobedient little schoolgirl for him to punish; so then why was she blushing brightly at the familiar warm, heavy sensation of something liquid gold and liquid fire leaping to his touch, praying that he wouldn't notice the dampness in sharp contrast to modest, innocent white cotton?

No, this was just _irritating_; she was through with letting him decide for her what she would and wouldn't enjoy. She tried to pull away, bracing against his leg, and gasped sharply as his hand tightened roughly in her hair and shoved her back down again.

"Come now, you did agree to accept your punishment, didn't you?"

_Punishment_, did he call it? Her eyes clenched tightly shut, and she bit her lip as he pulled her knickers down with one swift, deft movement, and ran one hand softly over her bottom and down the backs of her thighs.

Then, as the caress ceased, she tensed, and seconds later gave a startled yelp as his hand connected with her exposed flesh.

She heard him chuckle softly above her.

"That did _not _hurt."

"You weren't on the receiving end," she shot back, twisting around slightly to glare up at him. "Maybe we should do you next."

"Manners, young lady," he warned mildly before drawing back and delivering another sharp slap, and then another.

By the time he reached twenty, she was squirming against him, trying to pull away.

"I think that will do for now," he said, stroking her backside, the soft skin warm and faintly red. "Hurts a little, does it?"

"A little," she replied as unconcernedly as she could feign, wondering idly if he could possibly _not_ notice that she was coming dangerously close to leaving a bit of a stain on his trousers.

As he drew her panties back up and continued to run his hand soothingly over slightly stinging skin, she tried to shrug as she reflected that, well, it was _his_ dry-cleaning bill. He smoothed her skirt back down, and then pushed her gently to her feet.

Alright, so maybe he _had_ noticed.

"And what exactly have we learned from this, my dear?"

"To find a more secluded supply closet next time?" she guessed, eyes wide and innocent.

Frowning sternly, he caught her arm, spun her about, and then wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her back down into his lap. She gave a startled shriek, and then squirmed slightly against him.

"Are you feeling a little sore?" he asked in a low voice against her ear after a moment.

"Not really," she replied softly, shuddering a bit at the tingling sensation of his warm breath against the back of her neck.

"I see," he said thoughtfully. "Strange, though. You seem to be shifting about a lot. Perhaps there's another reason for that?"

She gave a long, breathy moan, her head falling back against his shoulder, as he slid one hand up under her shirt, fingers deftly pushing her brassiere aside, while his other hand slid up the inside of her leg.

"Very interesting," he commented lightly as he ran one finger over her panties, tracing her soft, slick folds through the fabric. "They seem to be rather damp. Perhaps this is the source of your discomfort?"

He gave another soft laugh as she bucked her hips against his hand, entreating him to continue, trying to increase that maddeningly light pressure.

"Hmm. Have I guessed correctly, then?"

"M-maybe," she replied as he stroked the underside of her breast lightly with his other hand.

"And is this familiar to you? From the supply closets?"

"No; we don't do this usually."

"Oh? Your…friends don't touch you this way?

"No."

"Odd that you respond so well; you seem quite familiar with it. I'll ask again: do your friends from the supply closets slip their hands up under your skirt and make you gasp and whimper like this?"

"A little," she replied hesitantly. "Not often. We usually only kiss a little and then go back to class."

"Ah. So they don't do this either?" he asked conversationally, dragging his thumb over her nipple, already tightened.

She shivered.

"Sometimes."

"Do they kiss you here instead?"

"Hardly ever."

He slipped his hand under the waistband of her panties and traced her outer folds lightly.

"I see. A shame, really. You seem as though you might enjoy it."

"Maybe…"

"Ask me."

She froze.

"Wh-what!"

"Ask me," he repeated. "Tell me what you want me to do."

She drew a long, shuddering breath.

"I can't, sir."

"They're only words," he said gently, withdrawing and stroking the sharply sensitive bundle of nerves in light, quick strokes. "Just tell me what you would like me to do."

"I-I want you to kiss me here," she finally managed, running one hand lightly over her chest.

He smiled against the curve of her neck, and then pushed her gently from his lap again. She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, gaze anchored firmly on the floor.

"Sit," he ordered, gesturing to the surface of the desk.

She hopped up to sit, and almost immediately, he grasped the bottom of her vest, dragged it up over her head, and tossed it to the floor, before working at the buttons of her blouse. As she shivered slightly in the cool air of the room, he reached around her, his hands sliding over her stomach and back, to the clasp of her brassiere. He unhooked it and discarded it quickly before pushing her back to lie against the desk.

The surface was cold enough against almost feverishly heated skin to send shocks through her, but this was quickly forgotten when he leaned over her, dropped a quick, light kiss on her forehead, another on her mouth, and then a trail down her neck until he reached the swell of her breasts.

She moaned softly, threading her hands into his hair, as he drew one nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling it slowly, almost lazily. He suckled gently, and then grazed the sensitive bud with his teeth, and she arched against him with a sharp cry.

His other hand slid down her body, to the hem of her skirt again, underneath her panties, seeking out the source of that growing, throbbing ache.

"And tell me," he murmured against the valley between her breasts, "have your girlfriends ever kissed you here?"

"No," she gasped, writhing against him.

"I would rather like to," he confessed, lifting his head to meet her eyes, moving his fingers slowly, circling inside her.

She gave an incoherent moan.

"You'll have to ask me a little more specifically than that, I'm afraid," he said with a low laugh, just a little rough with desire.

"I can't ask that!" she protested, very nearly a sob.

He brushed her hair tenderly from her eyes, still exploring her in agonizingly slow strokes.

"They're only words. Just ask me – tell me what you would like me to do."

Reddening nearly to the point of doubling as a light source, she brought both hands down to clasp his.

"Please?"

"Please, what?"

"Kiss me here?"

With a tiny shrug, he moved down her body and dropped a light kiss at the top of her thigh. Then, leaning over her again, he looked at her questioningly.

"Was that all you wanted me to do?"

"No!" she near-wailed.

"Then why don't you ask me again, more specifically?"

She glared balefully up at him for several seconds, cheeks still pink, breathing still laboured, and then shoved his shoulders sharply and unexpectedly enough that he stumbled back.

"I have a better idea, _Sir_," she shot back. "Why don't _you_ just_ piss off?" _

He watched her storm toward his office door with a faint puzzlement that, to him, was the sort of abject confusion to which he had always prided himself on being immune. At least, when the cause was a woman.

Particularly _this_ woman.

_Just a moment, though...Sir? Ah. She's still playing, then._

Spriniging off the desk, he strode quickly after her and caught her arm, yanking her back around roughly.

"I don't recall giving you permission to leave, young lady."

"_I _don't recall caring _what_ you say, old man."

"Go bend over the desk, lift your skirt up, and wait for me," he ordered quietly.

"Fall into a hole, go to Hell, and burn there," she snarled, trying to tug her arm away.

By now certain that he was being tested – if for no other reason than that she was generally a little more _clever_ with her blatant rudeness than this – he wrapped one arm around her waist from behind and dragged her roughly backwards, off-balance. She shrieked in startled anger as she stumbled and landed heavily against him, and then tried to squirm away, already crawling for the door even as he caught the back of her skirt and hauled her back. One hand tightening over the back of her neck and pushing her down until her cheek pressed to the floor, he smirked as the silly little pleated grey scrap slipped down to bunch at her waist, and he recalled the little lacy white undies still lying next to his desk.

When his palm connected with her still-tender backside, she gave another shriek of outrage, kicking at him as effectively as she could without having the faintest idea of _where_ exactly she was aiming. Dodging her forceful but utterly clumsy blows easily, he shook his head fondly before delivering several more firm swats to smooth skin quickly bypassing warm pink and turning bright red.

Her efforts to escape gradually tapered off, and when she finally slumped defeatedly to the floor, he hesitated. As a soft sniffle drifted back towards him, he smoothed her skirt back down and pulled her up.

"Don't, sweetheart," he chided gently, brushing away a teardrop with his thumb and cradling her against his shoulder. As soon as he felt her relax into his arms, lulled by kindness, he smiled against hair. "I won't be fooled by crocodile tears, and you'll only earn yourself forty more that way. Now," he continued, lifting her chin, "why don't you stop behaving like a spoilt brat, and go back to the desk?"

His arm went tightly around her waist before she could renew her struggle to pull away, and hauling a squirming, yowling little blonde up after him, he climbed to his feet.

"Alright, now, stop that," he ordered, half-carrying and half-dragging her across the room.

"Let me go, you creepy old man!"

He felt himself tense in anger far more acute than might have been if her blouse wasn't hanging open, breasts pressed tightly against his arm where it wound around her shoulders to keep her arms pinned, and her firm round little bottom grinding against him with her furious attempts to escape.

Not to mention, if he hadn't already been painfully aroused almost from the moment she came sashaying into his office in this silly little get-up that made him almost wish that he had been in a position to teach at a girls' school approximately eight years ago.

No, twelve. Catch her very young, and train her properly. More than he had managed, apparently, he thought ruefully as a flying fist grazed his cheek.

"Wendy!" His angry bark, punctuated by the sharp thud of her back hitting the desk, got her attention, and she stared up at him, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. "You are going to stop acting like this right now, do you understand?"

"Piss off," she muttered weakly, looking pointedly away from his eyes burning into hers.

He chuckled softly, running one finger lightly over her cheek, silken soft and deeply flushed.

"Do you know why I made sure you were on your back, facing up? It would have been far easier to push you facedown and take you right away – very easy. But I want to see your face when you give in."

"You'll be waiting a very long time."

"Will I, now?" he asked lightly, leaning in very close and running one hand up the inside of her thigh. "I don't know, my dear; it seems to me that if you had really wanted to put a stop to this, you would have."

"What do you think I've been doing!" she wailed, bucking in an attempt to throw him off.

"Thoroughly enjoying yourself, from what I can tell," he replied in a low murmur against her ear, brushing lightly and teasingly over downy-soft skin, fingers growing slick with her arousal.

"I'm not," she protested on a despairing, shuddering moan, still trying half-heartedly to squirm away.

"Then why haven't you put a stop to it? _I've had enough, Joseph, now please let me go put on some clothes that don't resemble a bizarre male fantasy._ If you're getting tired, it's that simple, and I think you know that."

Thinking very decidedly that he had an amazing talent for missing the point, she looked pointedly away.

"Well?" he prompted, taking her chin and turning her to meet his eyes.

"Let me up," she ordered, glaring.

"Tell me you want to end the game," he countered, leaning more heavily on her as his fingers found the sharply sensitive little bundle of nerves and circled in merciless firm, steady strokes.

Her response, unquestionably profanity, was swallowed up by a high, startled cry as she arched insistently against his hand, her own tightening at his shirt front. Gritting his teeth against the urge to move this elsewhere, abandon this silly game and carry her off to a warm bed, complete with locked door and unplugged telephone, as she shuddered hotly around his fingers, he buried his lips against the soft skin behind her ear and drew out her release, exploring her deeply.

He stroked her cheek gently as she gasped for breath, still clinging to him.

"There, now. Are you ready to behave like a grown-up now instead of a childish little brat?"

"Alright," she said with a long, shaky sigh, chest rising and falling rapidly. "Just...do what you want, and get it over with."

He laughed, and with a great effort, kept from cuddling her and kissing her forehead. Tenderness could come later. No matter how endearing the expectant, almost desperate need in her face, and the badly-feigned nobly self-sacrificing reluctance masking it might be.

"I think we have a misunderstanding, sweetheart. This is just as much for your benefit as for mine."

"No, it isn't," she muttered, blushing brightly. "You're just being mean and horrible."

"Oh? You haven't been enjoying it, being able to scream and cry and struggle and know that you'll still get what you want in the end? Then why on earth haven't you said the only thing you need to say to put a stop to it? I'll make it even easier for you, dear: do you want to end the game?"

She hesitated, eyes wide with conflict and misery, and then shook her head mutely. He nodded, brushing her hair off her neck.

"Good girl. I know you don't like to ask. But that doesn't change the fact that you've behaved very, very badly today."

He felt her tremble slightly beneath him. His smile widened.

"W-what are you going to do?" she asked shakily. Not _will I be punished_, because that was just a silly question, but _how?_

"Nothing."

She hesitated.

"What?"

"Nothing. I won't do a thing until you ask me to. If you don't want to end the game, young lady, you'll tell me what you _do_ want."

"But I _can't_," she protested softly, eyes misting over a bit. "I...I don't know how to say it."

"Don't be silly," he admonished gently, climbing off the desk and offering her a hand. "It's quite simple; all you have to do is string some words together, and _say_ them."

She chewed the corner of her lip nervously, twisting the corner of her blouse and bouncing her heels off the side of the desk.

"I—I want you to bend me over the desk and take me that way. Please," she added as an afterthought.

"Anything for a lady," he chuckled, holding out his hands to steady her as she hopped off the desk, and then abruptly catching her, spinning her about, and shoving her facedown.

Eyes lingering on the soft glow of her skin through nearly translucent white fabric, he grabbed the collar of her blouse and yanked it back off her shoulders, tossing it to the floor and then running one hand softly up and down her spine. Warm, soft skin trembled beneath his hand as she shivered.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he worked quickly at the buttons of his own shirt, and at the sound of the garment hitting the floor, she peeked back over her shoulder, eyes wide and adoring and joyously expectant as they flitted over his slim, leanly muscled arms and chest. His gaze, focused and intense and scorching, swept over her long slender legs, those silly knee socks drooping to about mid-calf, and the curve of her neck as she glanced back at him, short choppy hair brushing her cheek and creating something elfin, childlike, and altogether irresistible.

"Don't move," he murmured, squeezing her shoulders and pressing a long, slow kiss to the back of her neck. "Eyes forward, please."

With a sigh of faint irritation, she complied, and the next moment caught her breath at the sound of a zip rasping slowly open. His hand rested at the back of her thigh, tracing patterns over the smooth skin, and then slid up, taking her skirt with it until it bunched at her waist.

The surface of the desk quickly grew warm and damp with her rapid breathing as he moved in closer and rested one hand gently at her shoulder, running the tip of his length teasingly, laughing breathlessly at her noise of annoyance and her attempt to wriggle back against him.

Her hands tightened sharply at the edge of the polished wood surface as he drove into her roughly and without warning, and she moaned, grinding frantically back against his hips as her slickness enveloped him. His answering groan hummed through her where her back pressed to his chest. She echoed it as his hands tightened at her hips and held her still against the desk, driving in deeper until through a haze of fiercely burning unbearable pleasure, pain jolted through her as his fingers dug sharply and suddenly into tender skin at the same instant that he gave a long, unsteady cry that sounded nearly torn from him. With a peaceful sigh, she clasped his hand where it landed next to hers on the desk as he flooded her with heat and collapsed, winded, against her.

"Are you alright?" she asked after a long moment, shivering at the sensation of his breath against her neck. Then she grinned impishly. "Sir?"

She could nearly feel his slow, wicked smile, and his gentle chuckle stirred her hair.

"I'm just fine, my dear. And now," he added, climbing off of her and wincing slightly as a ghost of a past injury reminded him pettishly what came of these silly game, "I would say that it's high time my sweet little girl grew up and went to run a bath."

"Will you come, too?" she asked hopefully, arms winding around his waist as she snuggled happily against his shoulder.

"If I'm invited."

She laughed, and reached up to kiss him. Several minutes and several times as many playful squeezes and heated caresses later, they broke apart, slightly breathless. She looked away shyly.

"Was it too much?"

"You mean your stunning display of histronics?"

"Em, yes; that."

"Absolutely not. You were behaving exactly like an uncontrollable, hysterical adolescent female."

She blushed.

"Sorry."

"Not at all. I think I've been rather outclassed; you're better at this than I am."

"Being a bratty, hysterical teenage girl?"

"Well, you certainly have the _bratty_ part down cold," he groused. She scurried away with a little shriek as he took another swat at her backside.

"Ohh...I don't think you give yourself enough credit, Joseph; you're _very _good at being a brat when you want to be," she assured him, playfully consoling, keeping carefully out of reach.

"You know, Wendy," he said very pleasantly, stalking slowly towards her, "even long after they've grown into mature, sensible young women, girls will be girls. And unfortunately, _girls_ means _insufferable wiseasses_. Now, why don't you come a little closer and let me remind you just what _happens_ to these insufferable little wiseasses?"

"I thought I was supposed to be running us a bath," she pointed out, eyes wide and innocent.

He shook his head, laughing softly.

"Alright, off you go."

After taking one last look at that skirt – and that figure _in_ that skirt – he turned to the window, relaxed and elated and energized and exhausted.

It really was a nice night.

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End Notes: I've no idea why, but I remain convinced that these two play all sorts of nice Dom/sub games in their spare time. Y'know, he's the teacher, she's the student; he's the employer, she's the maid; he's the cop, she's the sweet little criminal girl who fell in with the wrong crowd and just needs a firm guiding hand to straighten her out. He's just that perfect blend of protective and cruel with her that, to me, seems pretty sexually charged. But then again, Story of O _is_ one of my favourite books, so I might be a bad example. XD


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